The Easy Way Out

39

Blake remembered the pain, the unrelenting red hot blade sawing in his lower back. He had suspected that his right kidney may have been damaged but now the signs were unmistakable. His kidney was failing and crying out for help. No matter how he rearranged his posture on the leather seat, the pain refused to subside.

He remembered steering the Tahoe to the side of a rural road, gripping the steering wheel so tightly he thought it might crack. He remembered struggling to climb down from the SUV, his arms shaking, his legs like sticks of butter.

But when he opened his eyes and discovered that he was lying on a grassy hillside, he had no recollection of how he'd gotten there. He was dressed in his Goodwill acid wash jeans and GAP denim shirt. It was as though he'd been abducted by aliens, poked, prodded and whatever else aliens do, dressed in his new outfit like a Ken doll, then discarded in the grass with no memory whatsoever of the close encounter.

He heard voices. Kids' voices. He propped himself up on his elbows and when he peered down toward the road, he noticed a little girl wearing a pink unicorn helmet cruising by on a pink bike. She had the kind of face that's out looking for rainbows every day. A second girl on a silver bike trailed, streamers fluttering from the handlebar. He heard one of them say, "I told you he ain't dead."

They made a second pass, and when their eyes met his, they accelerated, their bony little legs pedaling faster down the road. They were going to tell someone, a parent, an older brother, or a neighbor that they saw a strange man lying on the hill. He needed to get out of there.

They say that before you die, the world slows down so you can take one last, long look and drink it all in, lock in a memory of all the little details that you're going to miss. That's how it felt to Blake like everything was flattening out toward an indistinct horizon.

When he pushed himself into a seated position, the sharp pain took his arms out from under him and sent him back into the grass. His face felt hot, feverish. He rested the back of his hand on his forehead to confirm it. A savage cough arched his back and he tasted blood. He had to get moving. Police would be arriving at any moment.

########

Karas lowered the Lincoln's visor, blocking the harsh afternoon sun as he took the exit from I-77. Behind his sunglasses, Pat dozed in the passenger seat.

"So there goes another Thanksgiving I don't get to spend with my family," said Karas, not expecting much, if anything in return.

"I'm not complaining." Pat rubbed his eyes. "Spending a whole day with my wife's people is like doing prison time."

Karas grunted, flexed his neck, and rolled his shoulders. "This don't make a damn bit of sense to me," he said. "Christ, the old man should be going at the kid's family instead of runnin' us up and down every redneck interstate in the country."

"Family's a dead end." Pat yawned. "Geo comes to find out the kid's dad is D.A. in upstate New York."

"Figures."

"The old man's put the squeeze on a cop or two in his day, but a District Attorney. That's a bridge too far."

"Which brings us back to right where we are," Karas sighed. "Ridin' the hillbilly highways."

"We'll find them."

"Hope it's sooner than later. My ass is going numb."

Through the windshield, they saw a sign which read: WELCOME TO PROSPERITY, SOUTH CAROLINA.

"Somebody had a wicked sense of humor," Pat said as they drove into the hick town.

"Down there on the corner." Karas pointed to a phone booth standing outside of a mom-and-pop pharmacy.